


Pickup Game

by kitsune_kitana



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Humiliation, M/M, Overstimulation, Rape Fantasy, Rape Roleplay, Rape/Non-con Elements, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 11:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2466266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsune_kitana/pseuds/kitsune_kitana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur smiles, and it's predatory. "You're making me feel like I'm being unfair, coming here and collecting what I'm owed."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pickup Game

Eames is at the sink, washing dishes, when he hears the front door click open.

“You just missed dinner, darling,” he calls out to Arthur. “But there are leftovers. I can put together a plate--”

He doesn’t expect the cold edge of a knife against his throat, but it’s unmistakable. It’s Arthur behind him--he’s sure he knows the cadence of those steps against their hardwood floor and the hand that buries itself in his hair is familiar, stroking for just a second before gripping hard and wrenching his head back.

“That sounds wonderful, _darling_.” The voice, cold and mocking, sends chills down his spine. “I came here to collect on a debt Tom owes me, but I don’t see why I shouldn’t get a little something from you as well.”

It only takes a second for Eames to catch up. Tom is his lover. and Eames isn’t surprised that he works with less than scrupulous people, or even that he has men coming after him for money, but Eames never thought it was his place to ask. Now, however, with a knife to his throat and a man holding him hostage, that isn't looking like one of his wisest decisions.

His hands are trembling when he raises them from the soapy water, and he can already hear the pleading note in his voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Whoever you are, T-Tom, I don't know when he's coming back.”

He whimpers when the hand in his hair tightens in warning. 

“Then maybe you can help me out find what I'm looking for. Where did Tom hide the money he stole from me?”

“I don’t kn--” Eames cries out as he’s turned and thrown bodily against the pantry door, scrambling away as best he can when the man comes towards him again. He’s not even bigger than Eames, really, but there’s menace in every movement he makes. Eames can feel himself panicking when he's caught easily and shoved backwards against the wall.

“Where is my money,” Arthur asks again, his expression calm and dangerous. 

“Please, I don’t know.” He gasps as he’s backhanded across the face. More than the sting of his cheek, Eames’ is terrified because he doesn’t know, oh god, he doesn’t know what this man wants, or where Tom hides his money, and his heartbeat is pounding in his ears. Eames feels a prickle of tears--he’s so fucking helpless and, Christ, the man is changing his grip on the knife.

“Don’t hurt me,” Eames begs suddenly, hands held out in front of him in entreaty. "Please, don't hurt me." He cowers when the knife comes close again, feeling like his heart is beating in his throat. Arthur holds it against his skin, pressing the flat of it under his chin with one hand while stroking down his cheek with the other.

"Are you afraid?" 

This is such a stupid question to ask that Eames would roll his eyes if he didn't think it would get the shit beat out of him. He nods his head, thinking, just get him away from you, say whatever you need to get him out, and the other man clucks his tongue sympathetically. When his free hand goes to Eames' mouth, he shudders, stomach lurching. Not that, god, don't let him want that.

"Tom owes me a lot of money," Arthur says evenly. "And not only does Tom owe me a lot of money, he owes me interest, now, because I had to come and get it from him." His thumb pushes down on Eames' lower lip, and Eames flinches away.

"I'll tell him," he tries. "I'll tell him the second he gets back, I swear. I don't know what else you want. Just go, please, go."

Arthur smiles, and it's predatory. "You're making me feel like I'm being unfair, coming here and collecting what I'm owed." His eyes don't leave Eames' face even as the knife comes back up, catching on the collar of his t-shirt. He feels the shaking begin at his knees, muscles clenched tight with stress as Arthur cuts his shirt away from his body. The loud, sharp sound of splitting cotton filling his ears, and his mind is flashing at him frantically--DANGER, DANGER--as cold air hits his chest. The situation is spinning further and further out of control, and Eames is dizzy with it. He can't stop the low moan that escapes his mouth as Arthur pushes the remains of his shirt to either side and puts a hand on Eames' chest, stroking over skin, over his stomach. He flinches when Arthur's finger catches his nipple.

"Do you like that?" Arthur asks quietly, his eyes gone dark, rubbing the pads of his fingers over the peaked flesh. He squeezes at Eames with his forefinger and thumb until each nipple stands out, pink and swollen, and Eames knows that if either of them looked downwards, they'd see the half-hard bulge in his pants. He reminds himself that he can't fold a hand around Arthur's neck to encourage him to bring his mouth downwards. Arthur is here to take something from him, and he's not afraid to hurt Eames in order to get it.

"Don't do this," Eames whispers.

The hand goes lower, unbuttoning his jeans and tugging at the zipper "Take them off."

His voice is so hoarse, so far from Arthur's familiar tone, that it's easy to wrap his fear around him, to soak in the skin of this frightened man and believe that Arthur has come to take his boyfriend's debts--Tom, that _fucker_ \--out in trade. And Eames believes it, the shaking in his hands, the dread in his stomach, when he reaches down to his waist and pushes his jeans past his hips, where they pool on the floor at his ankles.

"Good boy," Arthur says. His voice is mocking, but there's heat in his eyes. "Step out."

Once Eames shuffles out of the denim, Arthur's hands are on him immediately, one pressing the knife back against his throat, the other stroking him through his briefs. Eames knows that he's hard, but he lets out a fear-filled moan when Arthur rubs at the head of his cock through the cotton.

"I could tell you wanted this, slut," Arthur whispers against his mouth as his hands slip under the elastic waistband, and Arthur grabs his arse firmly in one palm. "I bet Tom knew how easy you'd be. So he left you here for me to fuck while he made a break for it."

Eames gasps when Arthur's fingers sink between his cheeks and push against his hole, and when the tip of one broaches him, his vision goes sharp and bright with adrenaline. He's dry, and it burns. What if Arthur bent him over and tried to push inside without any lube, without slicking up his dick before pinning Eames' arms and fucking into his arse. What if Eames screamed and shook, trying to crawl away while Arthur pushed his thighs open wider, thrusting in harder. 

His mind is telling him to run, to get away, but his knees feel like they're going to collapse the moment he turns to bolt. Now, his body pleads with him, knife or no knife, now is the time to get away, and he shoves as hard as he can, two hands against Arthur's shoulders. Arthur lets out a startled sound, and Eames bolts out of the kitchen, and down the hallway, towards his bedroom, which has a sliding door leading outside. 

He hasn't gotten more than five or six feet away before Arthur tackles him, body riding him down into the carpet hard. Eames hears his own brute exhalation as his chest hits the floor and all the oxygen in his lungs is forced out in one painful rush. His left arm is wrenched behind him, a sharp pain at his elbow as Arthur pulls up mercilessly, his knee digging into Eames' thigh. He doesn't know where the knife is, Eames realizes, thinking _fuck, fuck, he's going to cut me--_

"Don't hurt me," he begs. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'll do whatever you want."

Arthur's weight is crushing his torso against the carpet, and he's panting with adrenaline, each breath a piercing pain against his ribs. Eames can feel where Arthur's cock is pressing against his hip, and gasps as his head is yanked back, fingers rough in his hair, and Arthur warns hotly against his ear, "You're going to regret that, Eames."

"Please," he whispers again and again, a cadence against the ground as Arthur pushes his cheek against the carpet and orders, "Get on your knees," applying pressure on his captive elbow in a way that makes it protest sharply. Eames struggles to get his legs underneath him, and Arthur is merciless, yanking his briefs down his thighs and kneeing them further apart. 

"Wider," he mutters, and then there's slick flesh pushing where he's most vulnerable, splitting his cheeks and popping through tight muscle in a painful, burning rasp. He sobs as Arthur fucks into him with rocking strokes until he bottoms out, balls resting against Eames' arse.

"That's right, slut," Arthur grunts as he pumps into Eames. He can hear his own breath coming frantic, rabbit-quick, the tears gathering in his clenched-shut eyes, and sweat on his upper lip. "Such a little whore, trying to pretend you didn't want this and then leaking all over the floor when I finally fuck you." And he's horrified to feel his traitorous dick hard and bobbing between his legs with the rhythm of Arthur's thrusts. Arthur laughs when he reaches between Eames' legs and takes hold of his leaking prick-- _laughs at him_ \--and begins to strip his palm up and down, murmuring filthily into Eames' ear.

"I knew you'd like it." The words are muffled against his throat, and Eames feels a wet tongue and then teeth against the back of his neck. "I could tell you were going to spread like a little bitch the second I laid eyes on you." 

Stop, he tries to scream, but he can't breathe. _I don't want this. Stop._

And, as if Arthur can read his mind, he leans back, pulling out of Eames' hole until just the tip of his dick is still inside, and then pushing inside until his balls slap wetly against Eames' arse. He does this again, again, and each long stroke feels unimaginably deep, like Eames could press against his stomach and feel Arthur's dick moving through him.

"Beg me," Arthur orders. "Beg me to fuck you harder or I'll break your arm." He pulls on Eames' elbow, still twisted unnaturally against his back, until Eames cries out and arches against the hold. He can feel tears escaping his eyes, clenched shut, and sweat dripping down his forehead.

"Harder, please," Eames starts, his voice hoarse. Arthur lets out a laugh that's cut off by a moan as he picks up his pace, plunging deeper into Eames' arse. "Please fuck me harder, please."

Arthur drops Eames arm, both hands going to Eames' hips as Eames struggles to pull it back under him, the dull ache at the joint already fading as he uses it to prop himself up more firmly against the floor. He groans as Arthur uses his grip to pull him back on his dick, as his thumbs slide inward and--

"Oh, you sweet little whore." Eames face burns as Arthur uses his thumbs to spread the cheeks of Eames' arse. Somehow the cool air of the room touching parts of him that aren't usually exposed doesn't negate the fact that Eames can feel the heat of Arthur's gaze on his hole. He imagines how he must look to Arthur, thin skin of his anus stretching wider as Arthur pushes his dick in, how he'd gape open if Arthur pulled out.

Arthur starts moving again, a pounding, unforgiving rhythm, and then he finds that spot inside Eames that makes his whole body shake, and he can't hide the hitch in his breath every time Arthur slides past it.

"Did I find your g-spot, you slut?" He whispers nastily in Eames' ear. "Are you going to come on my dick?"

"Yes," Eames hisses, and Eames can feel his balls drawing up even as Arthur takes his cock into his hand, uncareful as he jerks Eames off, precome slicking the way. Eames whimpers as Arthur's hand slides up further, twisting furiously against the oversensitive head, ignoring his pleas for Arthur to stop and the pained jerks of Eames' body as he tries to arch back and away. 

"Take it," Arthur orders through gritted teeth, and Eames tries to, though he's walking a pretty slim line between pleasure and pain, his nerves screaming with overstimulation as every struggle away from Arthur's hand only drives him deeper onto Arthur's cock. Arthur is no longer even thrusting, Eames notices, completely focused on working Eames' cock. 

He moans, squirming on Arthur's dick while the other man continues to jerk him off, palm slick thanks to all the precome Eames was leaking onto himself, until he comes into Arthur's palm, white starbursts behind his closed eyelids.

"That's it" Arthur pants, stroking Eames through the last of his orgasm. His eyes are wet, his muscles twitching involuntarily, but he doesn't miss that Arthur's tone has softened. His hands rest patiently on Eames' hips and Eames sighs and parts his legs more.

Arthur takes the hint, and fucks him gently, thrusts sending frissons of pleasure up Eames' spine until he comes inside Eames' with a quiet gasp.

He pulls out and flops over to Eames' side, and Eames can feel his come between his cheeks.

"How was that?" Arthur asks, quietly.

"Fine. Good." Eames isn't feeling especially verbal, and makes a noise of protest when Arthur's hands go back to his arse, fingers spreading him and pressing gently at his hole. "Fuck off," he says, and tries to wiggle away, but Arthur clucks his tongue, rubbing in a way that was more soothing than Eames would ever admit.

"I was pretty rough there. Need to make sure you're okay."

In response, Eames wraps his hand around the back of Arthur's neck and pulls him down for a kiss, sucking and desperate. "I have some further ideas," he says when he finally pulls back. "Where you decide to keep me in case Tom never pays up, and you train me to take your cock just the way you like it."

"Jesus christ," Arthur mutters, and Eames can feel the wide smile splitting his face, even when Arthur leans back in and shuts him up.


End file.
